Abandoned in Death (In Death, #54)(41)

She polished off most of the eggs. “I need to check in with Norman about the stripper. She doesn’t fit, but who says he can’t adjust? I need something I can start pulling out and tying together.”

“It’s been less than twenty-four hours.”

“Not for Hobe.”

She topped off her coffee, then took it with her into her closet. She half expected Roarke to come in, eyeball what she chose, but she heard him warning the cat to cease and desist.

She went for brown trousers, a navy jacket, and spotted a shirt that had needle-thin stripes of both.

How could he complain about that?

She hit on navy boots with brown laces she swore hadn’t been in there the day before.

When she came out for her weapon harness, her badge, and the rest, he waited until she’d shrugged into the jacket.

“You look ready to roll, Lieutenant.”

“Because I am. That five miles set me up.”

“It might’ve been the meditation.”

“Hope not, because I don’t think I can pull that off again. I think it was a, what do you call it, an aberration. Send me whatever you’ve got on that search. We can start slimming it down.”

“I’ll do that.” He rose, pointed a finger at the cat when Galahad took a very casual step toward the table. Then pulled Eve in and kissed her. “Take care of my cop.”

“I’ll do that.”





9





Since she’d left too early for the ad blimps to fly, Eve drove through the relative quiet of traffic snarls and horn blasts. She kept the windows down because the day dawned balmy.

Glide-carts already did brisk business with cart coffee guzzled by pedestrians trudging their way to work. Airtrams carried more—to or from—as did the maxibuses that could never seem to do more than poke along.

Delis and bakeries had their doors open. She caught whiffs of bagels and pastries along with the cart offerings of fake egg pockets.

She spotted a couple of dog walkers, a jogger who ran in place at the corner waiting for the light, a guy in a business suit riding an airboard. And the woman, eyes down on her ’link, he’d have mowed down when she walked in front of him if he hadn’t had damn good reflexes.

She shook her head when the woman shot up her middle finger at his back.

“Your fault, sister. Be glad you’re not bleeding on the sidewalk.”

The first ad blimp of the day cruised over as she pushed through downtown traffic.

It hyped sales on beachwear, which made her think of sun-washed beaches in Greece.

“Told you you’d get through it,” she mumbled, thinking of the girl she’d been in the dream. “Told you you’d be okay. I didn’t tell you how one day between locking up bad guys you’d spend time in a villa in Greece.

“Life’s just weird.”

She got to the lab just before the change of shifts, and considered her best approach. She could hit Berenski—lab chief—and nag him about the makeup and the rest. But Dickhead was Dickhead for a reason, and she hadn’t thought of a bribe she might need.

She’d try Harvo first, and that would give her a good gauge on progress.

She found Harvo just settling in at her workstation. Her purple hair had a scatter of green highlights, maybe to match the purple low-tops with green laces. She’d continued the theme with purple pants and a green tee with a bright white 42 emblazoned on the back.

“Hey, Dallas, I figured you’d come in. We had a flood yesterday, but I got going on the hair, and I took the clothes.”

“Thought you might. Got anything?”

“Still running, but I can tell you her hair was cut within twelve of time of death. Fresh snips, both with scissors and a razor. Shampoo and conditioner under the styling gel and setting spray. You’ll want the brands there, so I’ve got that going. She used a lightener, and highlights, but hadn’t had that done in about two weeks.”

On her rolling stool, she zipped to the other end of her station.

“I can tell you the jeans are Hot Shot brand, Diva series, ultra-low-rise in size four. And I can tell you they discontinued the Diva series in 2015. The Hot Shot brand—definitely low-rent—went under altogether in 2024. I can tell you the jeans had been washed, using Keep It Green organic detergent.”

“So you can tell me a lot.”

“Oh, I got more. The top, polyester blend, Sexy Lady brand—and that’s a store brand, or was, from 2002 to 2006, when they went under after the owner shot her lover and the sexy lady he had on the side who happened to be her sister, and Lover Boy’s first ex-wife. It was a pretty big scandal in Greenville, Tennessee, in 2005. Single shop,” Harvo added. “Strip mall about twenty-five miles south of Nashville.”

“Tennessee.”

“Had to be bought there originally, and in the way back. A lot more recently, somebody repaired the loose sequins, sewed them back in place. I’ve got the data on the thread for you, but it’s standard. Better workmanship on the repairs than the original.”

“He knows how to sew.”

“Gotta say yeah there. Also gotta say there are thrift stores all over hell and back where you could find these articles. Maybe your grandma’s attic, too, but once he had them, he took care of them. The black ribbon,” she continued. “Velvet, black, any good craft or fabric store.”